He should have taken a taxi. The rain that had been threatening all evening was here and instead of being inside an Uber, five minutes from home, he was walking along the road, water running down his face.

He hadn’t wanted to spend the money, not after all the cash he’d pissed up the wall in the pub. He’d only had four or five pints; it was the drinks he’d bought for Carl and Andy and Ben and who knew who else that had emptied his wallet and, as the night wore on, worn out his credit card.

And it was a fucking waste. They were using him, but he couldn’t help himself. It had been the same at school; they were the cool kids, the football players, the ones with fake IDs and pretty girlfriends. Most of the other pupils let them get on with it – they were happy to be the geeks or the nerds or fill whatever social niche they found themselves in, but Stan wasn’t. He wanted them to like him. He wanted to be cool. To be the best player on the team. To walk with the swagger they walked with.

They knew it. They dangled membership in front of him, taunted him with the prospect they would welcome him into their group. At parties they goaded him into doing stupid stuff: Hey, Stan, drink this or Stan the Man! You’ll take on the dare, right? Go and pull Marj’s thong up from the back of her jeans.

He did it, every time. He couldn’t stop himself. And every time the drink made him vomit, or the girl – rightfully enough – slapped him and told him he was – on one memorable occasion – ‘a no-balls wanker who could fuck right off’.

And here he was, doing it again. Since they left school he’d created a carefully curated image on Instagram and Facebook. Anyone looking at his social media would think he was a successful financial adviser with a burgeoning private practice – Another happy client! #DavidsonFinancial – and a brand new Audi A3.

In fact, he had one client, his uncle Tony, whose total portfolio was worth a tick shy of twenty-five thousand quid, two thousand of which he let Stan invest for him. The Audi in his photos was rented; he and his dad had gone to visit some dying relative in Edinburgh and his mum was using the car. The rental clerk, bored, had upgraded them.

So when Carl had seen him in the pub and said Looks like you’re doing well for yourself, always knew you’d make it, Stan the Man, he’d nodded nonchalantly. And when Andy had said Drinks on you, mate and Ben had added Mine’s a pint of Stella he’d replied Only too pleased, lads, go for it.

Which was why he was walking home in the fucking rain.